Burning Up

  He'd forgotten, she realized. He'd forgotten that he'd promised not to let go of the rail.

  So had she.

  "You'll remember tomorrow," she said, her breath coming in pants.

  His gaze lifted to hers. His slow grin made her want to leap over the rail into his arms again. She held steady.

  "Tomorrow," he echoed.

  "Yes." She moved back to make room for him. "The same trade."

  And maybe tomorrow she'd get farther than his biceps.

  "The same trade." This time, his echo sounded strangled. He stared at her for a long minute. "God help me."

  Ivy took that as a "yes."

  SIX

  Six days later, Ivy lay panting in Mad Machen's narrow bed, hoping that he would pray for her, too. In all her life, the only name she'd invoked for help was the legendary Leonardo da Vinci's, whose war machines had halted the Horde's progression out of Asia and into Europe for almost fifty years. But da Vinci couldn't help her. He'd been dead for centuries. Mad Machen . . . very definitely . . . was not.

  And he was as hideously clever.

  She turned her head, confirming the pale sunlight streaming in through the gallery windows. Only half an hour ago, she'd been in the crow's nest, looking through the biperspic lenses toward Britain's western shores, pointing out other sails on the horizon. They didn't have to search for Meg here--fed by a warm Atlantic current, these waters weren't cold enough for the giant sharks or the kraken. She'd been thinking of that when she'd skylarked down to the quarterdeck, but Mad Machen hadn't met her with his usual grin. He'd picked her up and swung her facedown over his shoulder, and Ivy had only just recovered from her shock when she'd realized that he was taking her to his cabin. And for a short time, she'd been tempted to risk everything.

  She hadn't had to. Mad Machen had only been a few steps from the bed when he'd asked, "Won't you pay me to stop?"

  Which meant that she'd have to earn her coin back with a kiss.

  And so she'd ended up on her back in the bed anyway, fully clothed, Mad Machen's mouth fastened to hers and his hands fisted beside her shoulders. With her legs around his hips and his heavy weight cradled between her thighs, he'd rocked until the needy ache had broken inside her, until she'd cried out as it shattered her hunger and rattled Ivy to the core. Then his mouth had become slow and languid on hers, as if he'd taken the wet heat from between her legs and alchemized her arousal into a kiss.

  Once again, she'd been tempted to risk everything--and once again, she hadn't had to. Mad Machen had only just lifted his head when Duckie had knocked at the door, calling through that Barker needed him topside.

  And so now she lay alone, wishing for someone to whom she could pray. Only two days remained of their journey--and twenty days to return. She could not hold out. With every hour, her hunger for him became its own desperation, and she would not take a risk simply because she wanted . . . but this desire had become something more like need, instead.

  Turning away from the windows, she buried her face in her hands. She knew the danger of this, could remember so clearly Netta's grief and devastation when she'd lost her man. If Ivy carried on in this manner, she'd be returning to Fool's Cove the same way. She needed to find some defense, because her fear of Mad Machen had not proven to be enough of one. Two weeks on his ship, and she'd seen little to justify his reputation. He could be hard and gruff and uncompromising, but not once had she witnessed any cruelty.

  Now she risked more than a child. And she didn't even need to take him inside her body to risk her heart.

  With a sigh, she sat up--and was almost thrown out of the bed as Vesuvius canted steeply to port. Ivy grabbed the rail, suddenly realizing that the shouts and running footsteps on the deck above weren't from the usual shift change. They came more often, were more urgent, and Mad Machen's voice rose above the rest. Oh, blue.

  She leapt to the deck just as someone knocked at the door. Duckie waited outside the cabin, his face flushed and eyes wide. Beyond him, men hurried about, climbing rigging and hauling line.

  "Miss Blacksmith, the captain requests that you follow me to the engine room. Mr. Leveque needs your assistance."

  No, Leveque didn't. The engine room was simply the most secure location on the ship. She nodded. "Lead the way, Mr. Cooper."

  She walked beside him down the passageway leading from beneath the quarterdeck. As soon as she emerged, Ivy glanced up. Standing at the balustrade, a grim-faced Mad Machen met her eyes before tipping his head toward the ladder that would take her below. She didn't argue, but paused for an instant at the ladder's head, looking forward.

  They were sailing toward a sinking ship. Almost as large as Vesuvius, her masts tilted drunkenly forward, the bowsprit almost parallel with the waterline.

  Ivy's heart lurched. Were they going to help it--or attack it?

  Duckie called up from the lower deck. "Miss Blacksmith!"

  She hurried down into pandemonium. The gun captains shouted orders, directing teams of men who shoved cannons toward open gunports. Boys raced about, placing buckets of water near the guns, spreading sand on the deck. Men began tying their neck scarves around their ears, and instinctively, Ivy covered hers.

  She followed Duckie down another ladder, and the next deck was marginally quieter. Ivy shouted, "Why the cannons? That ship is foundered!"

  Duckie shook his head. "It's a slavers' trick!" he shouted. "They took the captain in once--they won't get him again. Quickly, Miss Blacksmith!"

  He raced along the passageway to the engine room, and Ivy hurried after him, her mind spinning. She'd heard something like this before. Aboard the airship that had taken her to Fool's Cove, the crew had been abuzz with reports of ships that used inflatables to lift their stern. When another ship answered their signals for help, the crew was ambushed and boarded, passengers taken as slaves. But like the tales of clockwork armies in Europe and tribes of warrior women in South America, like the stories about giant worms on the Russian steppes, or humans that the Horde had bred to animals--no one had actually seen it for themselves or known someone who had, and so Ivy had dismissed it.

  She wouldn't have believed Mad Machen if he'd told her, either.

  Duckie pounded on the engine room door, yelling a stream of French. She heard locks opening from the other side, then Leveque poked his balding head out. He smiled at Ivy and gestured her in.

  Quietly, he sat at a small desk and picked up a pipe, puffing out rings of blue smoke. The expensive scent of tobacco filled the room. The engine lay silent. Around them, the hull creaked. Fewer boots trampled the deck above, as if all the men were in position and waiting.

  Her heart leapt as a cannon fired, a single shot followed by a muffled cheer. Leveque spoke, and though she didn't understand anything he said, she gathered by his tone that he was telling her everything would be alright.

  She'd have to take his word for it.

  Only twenty minutes passed before Leveque stood and moved to the door. She looked at him wonderingly, and when he pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and waved it, she understood: the other ship had surrendered.

  He unlocked the door and, with a bow, gestured her through ahead of him.

  On the main gun deck, the men hadn't stood down from their positions, though they'd obviously relaxed. Several wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their scarves. Others laughed and talked quietly. Ivy climbed the ladder to the upper deck, emerging amidst a cluster of Mad Machen's men armed with pistols and swords. Their eyes were trained starboard, and Ivy followed the path of their gaze. Her stomach lurched.

  Mad Machen stood at the rail, holding a man by his neck over the side. His face purpled, the man struggled for air, clutching at Mad Machen's wrist. His ship floated fifteen feet from Vesuvius's side, grapplings and gangways stretching across the distance. That single cannon shot must have destroyed the inflatable, sending the stern crashing back to the surface. Both the mizzenmast and main had broken, the heavy timbers fallen aft, sails and li
nes trailing in the water behind the ship. At least a hundred men had been gathered on the decks--the ship's crew, Ivy realized.

  Mad Machen's deep voice was loud enough to carry to the other ship, and full of deadly threat. "I ask you a final time, Captain. Which of these men is your employer?"

  When the captain waved his hand, Mad Machen brought him in. Falling to his knees on the deck, the mercenary gasped for air and wheezed, "The . . . hold. With . . . the cargo."

  Mad Machen's face darkened, and for an instant, Ivy thought he would kill the man. But he turned away from him, calling out, "Mr. Areyto, lead your men across and secure the hold. All men with bugs remain on Vesuvius until she's clear."

  "Aye, Captain."

  Eyes wide, Ivy watched the master-at-arms step onto the gangway while half of his men lined the rail with weapons aimed toward the other deck. Why only those who weren't infected? They weren't as strong, wouldn't heal as quickly.

  A sudden murmur ran through the men surrounding her. Mad Machen shouted, "Hold! Return, Mr. Areyto."

  Ivy strained to see what had caught their attention. But there were only the men standing on the other deck, unmoving . . . some of them unnaturally rigid. The ship lifted on a swell. Several men toppled over, as if they were stiff boards caught in a wind.

  As if their bugs had been frozen.

  Horror crawled up from her belly. Ivy stifled her whimper, trying to push away the memory of lying in her bed, of hands prodding at her body.

  On the other ship, a man slowly climbed up onto the deck. Blond and handsome, his skin as tanned as Mad Machen's, he held a bloody knife in his right hand and a gleaming metal box topped by a spike in his left.

  No--not a spike, Ivy realized. A miniature tower. Her gaze flew back to his face, to his pale hair. But this man wasn't one of the Horde.

  He began walking toward the rail, smiling. "Perhaps you will kill me, Captain Machen, but the Black Guard will endure. We will never be defeat--"

  A loud crack rent the air. In a burst of red, the man's forehead exploded. Ivy jolted back into one of the crew, her hands flying up to cover her shriek. The men steadied her.

  Mad Machen lowered his pistol and looked aft. "Retrieve the device and shut it down, Mr. Areyto. Mr. Barker, call for the surgeon--" He broke off as his gaze met Ivy's. She stared at him, hands clasped over her mouth. With a rough note in his voice, he continued, "And ask him to meet me in the hold."

  A chorus of Aye, Captain sounded. Ivy stumbled back to the port rail, and was sick over the side.

  When the last person had been unchained and led--or carried--out of the hold, Eben returned topside. He glanced across the water at Vesuvius's decks. He wasn't surprised to see that some of the men and women the Black Guard had meant to sell as slaves had remained above decks, lifting their faces to the sun. He wasn't surprised that Ivy had gone.

  It didn't matter. He could still see her. Her white face and the horror in her eyes were etched in his memory--as was her rush to vomit over the side.

  Why the bloody hell did she have to come above decks then?

  He found the ship's captain on the quarterdeck. The man took one look at Eben's expression and paled.

  Eben felt no pity for him. "Order your men to lower the launches. You have ten minutes to abandon ship. Make certain that you, Captain, are the last one into the boats, or my master-at-arms will shoot you off the ladder."

  The captain's face flushed. Forgetting his fear, he sputtered with indignation. Eben cut him off.

  "Ten minutes." He turned toward the rail. His crew had already hauled all but one gangway back to Vesuvius. "I suggest you pull hard for shore. Word is, a kraken hunts these waters."

  He crossed over to Vesuvius. Barker met him at the rail. Quietly, the quartermaster said, "The bastard gutted more than a few. The bugs are slowing the bleeding, but Jannsen says he needs more hands or he'll lose half of them."

  The surgeon had too much experience with the Black Guard's last-minute vengeance to be mistaken. Eben nodded and started toward the ladder.

  Barker called after him, "And the ship, sir?"

  "Ten minutes." Eben began rolling up his sleeves. "Then blow her out of the water."

  SEVEN

  Mad Machen's crew had done this before. Those who weren't still manning the starboard cannons rushed about the lower deck, clearing space for more than fifty newcomers. Pallets went down for those too weak or with too many prosthetics for a hammock. Boys distributed clear broth, holding the cup for those who needed it. Ivy commandeered linens and hot water, and started in cleaning wounds and repairing damaged prosthetics--broken so that they couldn't use the tools to escape the chains--and listening to their stories.

  Most had come from London slums: areas of Southwark, usually, but Ivy wasn't surprised to hear a few name Limehouse, which included the Blacksmith's territory. From London, they'd been smuggled west and held until the ship had come, then loaded aboard at night.

  But they hadn't all been taken from London. And although the others spoke in accents too heavy for Ivy to decipher, their pulverizing hammers, drills, and shovels told her just as well--they were all coal miners, likely taken from the colliers in Wales. The Horde had gone, but the men still needed to work, and they'd kept the equipment grafted to their bodies. That same equipment made them more valuable to the New World slavers.

  But not all of them would have been laborers; some had been headed for the skin-trade. And looking at the emaciated women and boys, Ivy understood that she hadn't been too skinny for them to take, as she'd always thought: her guild tattoo had kept her safe. Even the Black Guard, whoever they were, knew better than to cross the Blacksmith.

  But the Black Guard must have angered him . . . because the Blacksmith was helping Eben build a monster designed to frighten and destroy them.

  And bless the bright stars--so was Ivy.

  Midnight had long passed before Eben finally left sick bay. For the first time, he hoped that Ivy had already fallen asleep. Everything inside him was scraped raw. He couldn't bear it if she looked at him in fear and horror again.

  The sliver of yellow light beneath his cabin door dashed his hope. He girded his heart before entering.

  He expected to find her by the gallery windows, but she sat in her nightgown at the dining table, frowning down at the pieces of the Black Guard's freezing device. She'd wound her hair around her head like a crown, each braid a coppery red in the soft glow of the lamp. Shadows formed half circles below her eyes.

  She glanced up at him, her solemn gaze lingering on the blood staining his shirt. Stiffly, he turned toward the bureau to change and wash. He heard her sigh.

  "This device isn't like anything I've ever seen," she said. "The power source--it's a battery, but I'd need a thousand Kleistian jars to equal a few seconds of activation. And the circuitry, and these . . . these . . . I don't know what they are. It's like looking at a nanoagent. Somehow, commands are being processed, and I don't know how."

  The last word came out muffled. Eben turned, saw that she'd put her hands over her face. She drew deep, steadying breaths. "The Blacksmith might know," she added quietly.

  "We'll send it to him."

  Opening her hands, she looked at him through the brackets of her palms. "It's Horde technology. But that man wasn't Horde."

  "No," Eben said. "None of the Black Guard have been."

  Ivy studied him for an endless moment. Then she nodded and stood, gathering the pieces into a small bin. "You were in the surgery a long time."

  "We lost two," he said gruffly.

  "I heard. I'm sorry." Her searching gaze swept over him again. "Did you eat?"

  "Yes."

  With her nightgown skimming the floor, she walked to the bed and lay down. When she awoke tomorrow, Vesuvius would be anchored near Trahaearn's estate, and she'd be heading ashore to build the kraken. And although Eben had intended to stay with her, now he'd be sailing into the port at Holyhead, returning those who the slavers had abducted from Wales,
and then on to London. He'd be away from her for almost a month.

  Christ. For two weeks, he'd done everything possible to show Ivy he wasn't a monster. One day had ruined all of that--and as soon as she left his ship, he'd have no way to prevent her from running.

  Again.

  His heart heavy, he finished cleaning off the sweat and blood. He looked toward the bed, then snuffed the lamp so that if she turned away from him, at least he wouldn't see it.

  But as soon as his head hit the pillow, she curled against his side and laid her cheek over his heart. His throat tightened. Eben stared up into the dark, trying to remember any moment in his life when a single action had affected him more. He couldn't.

  By God, he loved her.

  And he'd kiss her now, if she would just give him the denier that they'd passed back and forth the past week. He waited, wondering if she held it in her hand--but he could feel her left palm flat against his arm, her fingers gently stroking his biceps, and her right was tucked loosely beneath her chin.

  "You forgot the coin."

  "No." Her warm breath whispered over his chest. "I know you'd never force me."

  He couldn't respond for almost a full minute. Then he said, "I wish you'd figured that out after you'd earned your denier back." Her laugh left him as full and light as an airship. "Tell me, Ivy: do I have to pay for a kiss?"

  "I should charge you five hundred gold sous. I'm furious with you."

  She had an odd way of showing it. "I know what shooting that bastard looked like. But--"

  "Not him. Good riddance to him, the murdering bumchute." She lifted her head. His eyes had adjusted to the reflected moonlight coming in through the windows; there was no mistaking her fierce expression as she looked down at him. "I'm speaking of how you let me think you were stealing cargo and killing men. You didn't mention that the cargo you stole was people, and the men were slave handlers."

  And that painted a fine picture of him. But as much as he'd have liked to leave her with that impression, he couldn't. "I've still killed plenty of men, Ivy. The seas aren't kind to anyone, and the jobs I take on for Trahaearn are usually the ones nobody else wants, because it puts a target on my ship. There's been many a time that I've had to shoot first--and I can't regret any of them. It just happens that in the past two years, I've been shooting at the Black Guard."